T

he warm glow of the oil lantern filtered under the laboratory door, in to the hallway beyond.  The radiance was inviting, and a stark contrast to the shadowy darkness of the sleeping household.  Even so, the Doctor found himself hesitating.  Years of experience told him that something was amiss.  The light was still on with the key still in the lock, indicating that either Wallace or Stedman was still awake, but the room was deathly quiet. There were no sounds, however small, of laborious research. 

 

It had been several hours since their run-in with the horde of undead field mice.  Before they returned to the mansion, the Doctor and Jamie had dropped off the stun gun at the TARDIS. Neither of them wanted to lug its heavy bulk back across the countryside.  Besides, the Doctor now believed it could do little to help them.  They had returned using the backdoor key that the Doctor had liberated during the afternoon, and were fully intending to go to bed. That was until the Doctor clapped eyes on the lit laboratory.  Now all thought of sleep had been banished.  His premonition of Wallace’s death was at the forefront of his mind.  He needed to see what lay beyond its heavy oak panels, but had trouble finding the nerve. 

 

‘Shall we toss for it?’ asked the Doctor eventually, ‘Loser goes first.  Heads I win, tales you lose.’

 

‘Och, don’t bother with that,’ said Jamie, ‘Stand aside.  I’ll go.’

 

‘Maybe we should both go together?  Yes that’s it.  Both together.’

 

Yet it was the Doctor that gripped the finely decorated handle and pushed.  The hinges groaned as the door swung open.  Together they entered.  In the middle of the room sprawled a body, but it was not Wallace’s.  Even from their vantage point by the door, it was obvious that no life remained.  Around the prone form stood a stagnant lake of blood.  The time travellers carefully moved closer, their footsteps ingraining the thick burgundy liquid further in to the carpeting.  Sorrowfully, the Doctor knelt down to examine Stedman’s body. The right arm was completely missing, wrenched off at the shoulder, but it was the expression on his once handsome features that was the most heartbreaking.  His face was a mask of pure horror.  The Doctor had seen similar expressions more times than he cared to remember, but the sight was always saddening.  Always regrettable.  Nobody should die with such terror in their minds.

 

‘Was this mice or chickens then, Doctor?’ said Jamie from his side.

 

‘No, this was human,’ replied the Doctor shaking his head as a pang of guilt hit his hearts. ‘And the worst part is it may not have happened, at least not yet, if I hadn’t dug up those bodies for poor old Stedman’s research.’

 

‘You mean one of those dead people is really alive?’

 

‘Not quite.  I believe someone or something is controlling the dead.  Remember the mice? This is no different.  We drove it out of the rodents, so it simply came here and found an even more deadly weapon.  The question is, where has it got to?’

 

Apart from the scientist’s body, there was no sign of anything out of the ordinary in the lab. The three corpses brought by the time travellers the previous day were nowhere in sight.  This didn’t surprise the Doctor.  No self-respecting scientist would keep his specimens inside his laboratory.  The smell of that many bodies together would be overpowering. There would be a separate room – a morgue of sorts – where they would be kept until time for dissecting.  His gaze fell on a red leather covered door, almost camouflaged by a bookcase full of notes and journals.  Satisfied that he had found the morgue, the Doctor held his breath and threw open the door.  The door thudded dully against the wall, and the Doctor and Jamie stole through.

 

The room was quite unlike any conventional morgue.  Firstly its use was for scientific storage, not burial or medical.  Secondly it was not chilled.  Instead there were rows upon rows of thick pine shelves containing numerous pickling jars of all shapes and sizes.  Inside each jar contained a different piece of human anatomy.  Some held internal organs such as hearts, livers, kidneys and brains.  Others enclosed entire body parts.  Several of the largest jars contained complete heads, hideously discoloured by the embalming fluid they floated in.  Although Jamie pulled a face of disgust at these scientific curios, they held no interest for the Doctor.  He found what he was looking for to the left of the door.  There lay the shapes of two of the newly arrived corpses, their flesh still covered by the makeshift body bags.  Where was the third?  He moved further in to the room, and quickly realised that it was an L shape. A faint noise was emanating from around the bend.  Sounds of chewing and splintering bones. 

 

Any thought of retreat was unthinkable for the Doctor.  He had to see what was around the corner, however dangerous it may be.  Silently he crept closer, with Jamie close on his heels.  Together they turned the bend, and froze at the sight before them.  Edgar Wells, good Christian and loving husband and father, stood chewing the raw flesh from a human forearm as if it was a chicken wing.  Stedman’s arm was virtually stripped to the bone, but no nourishment would ever be gained from this meal.  As each bloody mouthful was swallowed, it pushed more of the undigested meat out of the incision in the corpse’s stomach and on to the floor.  When his blank eyes looked straight at them, the time travellers became aware that they had been spotted.  His head lolled on to its side, and with a ghostly groaning he shuffled forwards.

 

‘Back Jamie, ever so slowly,’ whispered the Doctor, ‘I don’t think it can move very fast.  Now when I say run…’

 

Jamie finished off the sentence. ‘…Run.’

 

With slow and deliberate movements, the Doctor backed towards the door.  Jamie reached it first, and pushed it open with the back of his hand.  Edgar had almost closed the distance, when suddenly the Doctor turned and yelled at the top of his voice.

 

‘Run!’

 

Immediately, Jamie sprinted across the laboratory, leaping over Stedman’s body with a giant bound.  Lacking the Scott’s acrobatic skills, the Doctor attempted to skirt around the fallen scientist.  He had almost cleared the grim obstacle when something seized his foot, nearly causing him to fall headfirst on to the blood stained carpet.  Fighting to regain his balance, the Doctor twisted his body to look back.  It was not Edgar who had a grip on his ankle.  He was still a few feet away, but lumbering closer by the second.  Instead, the cast iron grip was the cold and clammy touch of Stedman.  The dead scientist’s one remaining hand grew tighter with the time traveller’s struggles.  The body’s vacant eyes gazed towards the Doctor, and a sticky stream of drool escaped his gaping mouth.  Fortunately, Stedman’s teeth were too far away to be of any immediate threat, and without the aid of his other arm, the corpse was finding it difficult to stand.  The small mercy was nonetheless irreverent, as Edgar finally reached the trapped Doctor’s side and plunged in for the kill.

 

With a Highland battle cry, Jamie flew to his friend’s aid.  Snatching a cleaver from a pile of dissection tools, the Scott careered towards the struggling mass of bodies.  The implement crashed down upon Stedman’s wrist, severing it completely.  More fresh blood splashed on to the lush carpet.  The amputated hand held on for a few short moments and then went limp, falling to the floor.  But the danger wasn’t yet over.  Edgar had taken hold of the Doctor’s old frock coat, and was in the process of pulling the Time Lord towards his waiting mouth.  With the paralysing grip of Stedman lifted, the Doctor gracefully slipped out of the coat, and gave Edgar a little bow.  Then he fled towards the exit, leaving the corpse holding only the coat in his cold hands.  Jamie followed, slamming the door behind him.

 

‘I hope he doesn’t ruin that coat,’ said the Doctor, turning the key in the laboratory door. ‘I’m rather fond of it.  Its hard to find a good wearing coat, you know.’

 

* * * *

 

Wallace snapped awake.  The din from the laboratory had invaded his dreams, and prompted him in to consciousness.  He groped for a match, and used it to light the candle stub that he kept at the side of his hard bed.  The flickering flame pushed away the darkness of the night.  Although the mansion was large and luxurious with many empty bedrooms, Wallace’s place of rest was small and modest.  Originally meant for a high-ranking servant, he had chosen it simply because it was the closest to the lab.  With his unorthodox hours of sleep, the arrangement meant he could continue his research with the minimum of disturbance to the household, and cut down on wasted travelling time in to the bargain.  It was very rare that he was woken, either during the day or night, as the servants kept well away from the area when they knew he was sleeping. 

 

The scientist strained his ears, but now there was no noise to hear.  Was the disturbance his imagination?   His question was quickly answered when a defiant holler, resembling some sort of battle cry, pierced the night’s silence.  Wallace hopped out of bed, and rummaged around in the dressing table.  In the top drawer he found what he was looking for.  Swiftly he loaded his flintlock pistol, a memento from his father’s days in the English cavalry.  Not bothering to change out of his nightshirt, he tiptoed out of the room.  If there were burglars in the house, they would have to deal with his shot before they could get away with any valuables.

 

Noiselessly he padded along the hallway.  The commotion appeared to have died down, but in the gloom he could make out shapes outside the laboratory door.  Two figures whispering together.  The pistol raised in front of him for support, the scientist edged closer so he could hear the conversation.  

   

‘So we’ve got it trapped, so what next?’

 

The accent had a Scottish twang, and suddenly Wallace recognised it.  The voice belonged to one of Stedman’s guests.  That meant the other figure must be the Doctor.  Just as he was about to enquire why they were up at this late hour of the night, the Doctor’s words startled him.

 

‘I’m not sure.  I don’t know how we’re going to explain this to Wallace.  How do you tell him that his dissection subjects are lethal, and have just slaughtered his partner?’

 

‘You could start by explaining that remark!  And you can begin by telling me just what you mean by “slaughtered partner”.’

 

Wallace’s unexpected booming voice caused the guests to jump like startled rabbits. Forgetting to lower the pistol, the scientist strode out of the shadows, making his presence known at last. 

 

‘There’s nay need to point a gun at us,’ said Jamie in annoyance, ‘We’re on your side.’

 

Wallace began to feel a little foolish levelling his pistol at what were, after all, his colleague’s guests.  He lowered the weapon.  It was not the manner of a gentleman to threaten guests in the middle of the night, whilst wearing just your nightgown.  Holding the gun limply by his side, the scientist turned to the Doctor for an explanation.

 

‘I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news,’ said the Doctor softly, ‘But please you need an open mind to understand what’s happening.  I’m sorry to say that your partner is dead.  A great loss.  He was killed by a zombi - the walking dead as your Earth folklore refers to them.  For some reason, somebody or something is reanimating the recently deceased and using them as weapons.’

 

‘Superstitious rubbish!’ scoffed Wallace, ‘I have never heard such hogwash!  I thought you, like me, were a man of science.’

 

‘The proof is just beyond that door.  But I warn you…’

 

The scientist cut the Doctor off with a dismissive wave of the hand, and turned the key in the laboratory door.  The lock clicked, and the door swung open.  Boldly he entered, knowing full well that the warning of the undead was utterly ridiculous.  No doubt he was the butt of some childish joke, and inside the room all would be well.  His confident air evaporated when his feet squished on the crimson soaked carpet.  Blood coloured his bare souls red, but he didn’t notice.  Before him lay the mutilated body of his fallen associate, a death mask of horror on his chiselled features.  Beside him lay the partly dissected corpse of Edgar Wells. As lifeless and unmoving as when he was brought in. 

 

The Doctor and Jamie silently joined his side.  Wallace moved towards the bodies, but was halted by a gentle touch just above his elbow.  Angrily, he shook off the Doctor’s hand and glared at him.  He knew there was no point in searching for signs of life, but couldn’t leave Stedman lying on the floor in such an undignified manner.  Struggling with the body, he attempted to lift the remains on to the mortuary slab.  Suddenly his burden became lighter, and he realised that Jamie was aiding him in his task.  His head still reeling with the shock of his loss, it took some time for Wallace to register that the Doctor was binding the arms and legs of both corpses.  Anger flared up.  Automatically his hand rose, and again the pistol was aimed at the time travellers.

 

‘What the hell happened?’ he demanded, ‘Did we have intruders or are you two responsible?’

 

‘Look here,’ said Jamie, his fiery Highland temper heating up, ‘Everywhere we go somebody thinks we’re murderers.  Do we have “murderer” stamped on our foreheads or something?  It was nay to do with us.’

 

‘If everyone says it, maybe there’s some truth in it?’ said Wallace, swinging the gun to train it at Jamie’s chest.

 

‘I think we should all show some calm, don’t you?’ soothed the Doctor, ‘I did explain what happened.  Fortunately, whoever was controlling the bodies has stopped for now. Otherwise you would probably have been a meal for a zombi, and a flint lock pistol wouldn’t even have slowed it down.’

 

‘How can you persist with such utter rubbish?’

 

‘For such a brilliant scientist, you have a very closed mind.’

 

This time Wallace said nothing.  Little by little the gravidity of the indecent struck him. Although born from a well-to-do family, his father had frittered away all of his inheritance on high living.  It had been eight years since he had seen any of his relatives.  For all he knew every one of them could be dead, and he really didn’t care if they were.  All that mattered to him was his research, but now that was in mortal danger.  Stedman owned the mansion and everything in it.  It was why Wallace had tolerated the inferior capabilities of his colleague. That and the fact that with his mild manners, he was always pleasant company.  In contrast, Wallace was by nature a loner.  But he was a penniless loner, and without Stedman’s support he would be little more than a vagabond.  He knew with certainty that was exactly what he would become when Stedman’s family turned him out.  His sister had her envious eyes on the grounds for years, and certainly wouldn’t tolerate his presence.  Without a shilling to call his own, he would never be able to publish his experiments.  He needed time to think.  Time to work out the situation.  Until he had sorted it out in his mind, everything must appear normal.

 

‘I don’t know if you are responsible or not, but your tales of the walking dead are obviously drivel,’ he said eventually, ‘All I am certain of is that Stedman has been murdered.  You must do exactly what I say or you will hang.  For now we are all going to bed, and God help you if you attempt to escape.’

 

‘So you believe in God and the Devil, but not in tales relating to any other superstitions,’ mused the Doctor, as he picked up his crumpled coat from the floor. ‘How very scientific!’

 

Wallace refused to rise to the goad, and led them firmly to their respective bedrooms.  Each time traveller heard the heavy click of the lock as he was shut in.  Only then did Wallace turn on his heels to retire for the remainder of a restless night.

 

* * * *

 

The soft thump of a drum filled the slave quarters.  Inside Toussaint’s bare and cramped room, the old slave sat cross-legged.  Once more his wrist flicked the roughly hewn drumstick on to the animal hide, continuing the dull beat.  The relics of the sacrifice lay at his knees.  Stolen from the kitchen earlier in the day, the small chicken’s throat was slit and blood drained in to a bowl.  A little had been smeared on to the slave’s eyes and tongue. Clutched tightly in his spare hand was a wooden cross, the symbol of Christianity.  No longer were the old ways pure.  So long had he and his kind been in slavery that beliefs both ancient and new were mixed together.  A potpourri of religion.

 

The spitting wax of the burning candle hissed in anger, and threatened to cut off its feeble light.  The flame was not so easily dismissed and fought back.  The wick kept smouldering for a while longer, casting shadows on to the walls.  Shadows that sometimes appeared to Toussaint as noble dancers from his homeland, and other times as devils and tormenters. This time they meant nothing.  In his trance they remained unseen by his eyes.  Unseen by his, but seen by another.  Seen by the one who built the bridge. 

 

The beat of the drum petered out, and the stick fell to the floor.  The trespasser behind his eyes faded with the rhythm and then was gone.  His hand crushed tighter on the cross, forcing a tiny splinter under his skin.  A trickle of blood flowed, and then halted its journey as it clotted. His body and mind exhausted, Toussaint slipped in to a deep dreamless sleep.

 

 * * * *

 

Absentmindedly, Victoria stirred her tea with the silver spoon.  She didn’t like the way Wallace looked at her from across the coffee table, or the way he tried to ‘accidentally’ brush up against her when she came in the drawing room half an hour previously.  The man was a letch, and she knew she would feel better when the Doctor and Jamie finally surfaced.  Hopefully their night-time expedition had gone well.  They had certainly slept far in to the morning.  She also wondered where Stedman was.  She liked him.  He was sweet, if a little clumsy with company.  Again Wallace stole a glance at her feminine curves, all but hidden beneath her Victorian frock.  She brought the steaming cup of tea to her lips and took a ladylike sip.

 

‘The Doctor and Jamie ought to hurry, or all the tea will get cold,’ she said almost to herself.

 

Wallace nodded his agreement, and much to her surprise stood up to ring a bell-pull hanging near the door.  Presently Oscar answered the summons, and listened intently to his master’s whispered instructions.  One stiff bow, and the butler left.  Almost ten awkward minutes had passed, when the door opened and Oscar escorted the Doctor and Jamie in to the drawing room.  Victoria thought it curious that instead of leaving the butler remained in front of the door.

 

‘Good morning gentlemen,’ said Wallace in a manner that smacked of insincerity.  ‘I trust you slept well.’

 

‘Mustn’t grumble,’ said the Doctor cheerily.

 

‘Aye, but it would have been better if we weren’t locked in like common criminals,’ added Jamie.

 

‘Oh come Jamie, what else could he have done?  Zombi are gobbledegook in the realms of science, so obviously we’re suspects.’

 

‘What happened last night?’ interjected Victoria.  She was feeling as if events had dramatically overtaken her.

 

‘I’m afraid that Stedman was killed by one of the bodies we dug up,’ explained the Doctor sorrowfully.

 

‘Oh, how horrible!’  Victoria gave a little shudder.  She had known that the dead should have been left to rest in peace.  Hadn’t she voiced that opinion as strongly as she could?

 

‘But this fool won’t believe us,’ said Jamie.

 

‘I don’t know if you did it or not,’ replied Wallace, ‘But I wish you would forget these childish tales of zombi.  I will do a post mortem later to determine your involvement.  For now I must ask you to behave as if everything is normal.  The servants know of Stedman’s death, but no one outside these four walls does.  I have leant Oscar my pistol, and he will be ready to use it if you put a foot wrong.  Play fair with me and you may avoid the noose.’

 

‘Why all the secrecy?’ asked Victoria.

 

‘I have, um… a vested interest in delaying the discovery of my colleague’s passing away.’

 

‘That sounds utterly horrid,’ said Victoria, ‘I would have thought you would be mourning the loss of your friend, not… not lining your own nest!’

 

‘Would you rather your friends were hung?’

 

‘Any policeman would see in a moment that the Doctor and Jamie are innocent!’

 

Wallace seemed perplexed by her comment, and she felt the Doctor gently pat her arm.  He leant across and whispered something in her ear.

 

‘Remember your history, Victoria.  There is no police force yet.  Not for a while at least.’ Dropping the whisper he turned to Wallace and said, ‘To involve the authorities would not be a good idea at present, but if you want our assistance you have to tell us why.’

 

‘I suppose I’ll have to level with you,’ sighed Wallace, ‘Stedman owns everything here, and he never made a will.  We were too busy with our experiments for such things.  His sister, Maud, will inherit all and will revel in throwing me out on the streets.  If the word of Stedman’s death gets out before I have a chance to publish my research, then all my work would be to no avail.   But his body could be of immense value to my studies.  It is what he would have wanted.  I could tell everyone he has gone on a journey abroad.  When he never returns, it will appear that he was lost at sea or killed by foreigners in the jungle.  The house will then pass on to his sibling, but by then my work on the human body would be published for the greater benefit of mankind.’

 

‘Och, you make it sound so noble!’ snorted Jamie.

 

‘Oh, I think we can humour our friend here, don’t you?’ said the Doctor, surprising his companions.  ‘Once he’s done the post mortem, I’m sure he’ll see Stedman’s death had nothing to do with us.  And so far all the attacks have been at night, so until then I think we should be perfectly safe.  That gives us plenty of time to work out our next move… Anybody mind if I play a little tune on my flute?  Any requests?’

 

* * * *

 

The sermon of Reverend Cunningham was more of a threat for everyone to behave themselves than a message of God’s love.  In his usual manner, he practised next Sunday’s speech in the empty church.  As God’s supposed words left his lips, he waved imploringly to the multicoloured Saint gazing down at him from the stained glass window.  The rays of morning light appeared to cause the Saint to smile his agreement to the vicar’s message. 

 

‘… You only have to cast your eyes at yourselves to know that we are all sinners.  Sinners that are bound for fire and brimstone unless we all repent.  Repent, and invite God in to your hearts and Jesus in to your souls.  Some of those within this village had such evil thoughts in their minds that they have already been struck down by the Almighty.   I need not mention the foul deed of Tom Sawkins, for you are all aware of his heinous sin.  The Devil was unleashed, and immediately condemned his soul to hell.  Lucifer is still in our village, waiting to take the unrepentant sinner.  And it could be anyone of you, unless you repent right now…’

 

Briefly he wondered if he was being too hard on the congregation, but this thought was immediately recognised as being weak.  To him, a messenger of God, man was like a small child.  To be bullied and forced in to doing the right thing out of fear of the consequences. Unlike a parent however, the Almighty always knew when the child was lying.  If anything he should be harder still, and explain all of the torments awaiting the unrepentant in the bowels of hell.  Recent times had proved to Reverend Cunningham that Lucifer had indeed been unleashed in to their midst.  The death of the body snatcher had proved that fact.  Tom Sawkins was a bounder and a scoundrel, with his grubby fingers in countless evil pies, and the good Lord had struck him down.  He was unsure of the sins of Henry Wells, but the man hadn’t been to church since his wife had passed away.  It just goes to show what will happen if you push the Almighty from your life.  And even if he was wrong, the Reverend revelled in the power such messages gave him.  He continued his rant, his voice now taking on an almost musical air.  With no congregation to absorb the sound, the Reverend’s words reverberated in the large empty space. 

 

‘… In the fires of Lucifer you will writhe in internal agony.  For us, the unworthy, we may still reach paradise…’

 

Then another echo joined in.  An echo that was not made by him.  Pausing in mid-sermon, the preacher listened.  As abruptly as it started, the sound ceased.  Writing it off as a church mouse on the difficult search for crumbs, he continued his practice.

 

‘… Because of the willing sacrifice by Jesus the Saviour…’

 

Again he halted the sermon.  The echo had returned.  It was coming from the chapel of rest. Perhaps some vagrant had broken in during the night.  The overweight man waddled towards the chapel.  This was a place of worship, not a doss house.  If the church had been broken in to, then he would have to dispel the trespasser.  There were workhouses for the likes of the homeless. 

 

Squeezing himself through the chapel’s door, he saw what had caused the noise. Somehow Kathy Bruckell’s coffin had slipped of its resting place, unceremoniously dumping the once pretty girl on to the floor.  Puffing with annoyance, the preacher heaved the small oak box back in to place.  Stooping down he picked up the eight year old, and deposited her inside. The Lord’s will was certainly mysterious, taking such a youngster, he thought.  She was killed in one of the local textile mills, hit by a flying bobbin.  No doubt she had done something to deserve such wrath.  He shook his head sadly.  The burial was due in under an hour, so he’d better hurry and finish his sermon practice.  The Reverend Cunningham shifted his overindulgent bulk back in to the worshipping area, and soon the echoes of his words once more filled the building.  Kathy Bruckell never again left the confines of her coffin to devour the rats that scuttled through the chapel.  The entity that briefly used her body had more interesting creatures to consume.  And this time it need not wait till after dark.